The Spark
by Fires of Fury
Summary: The life of Olive Abroholos Elephanta. What brought Olive to Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children? MOVIEVERSE
1. Prologue

Rain was pouring through a leak in the ceiling. It felt as if the weather wouldn't improve any time soon, and it seemed as if the house was going to flood and everyone would die of hypothermia. But not Olive. She was the only one who could prevent her parents from getting frostbite and colds. But she didn't know what she was capable of yet. If her seven year old mind could only start to comprehend the power that she would soon have.

"I'm not spending another night in this dump!" Olive's father shouted angrily to his wife. Scared, Olive held her hands to her ears and tried her best to drown out the yelling of her frustrated parents. After what seemed like ten hours, the rain stopped, but this did nothing to silence her arguing mother and father. _Maybe if I go in there, they'll stop yelling,_ she thought to herself.

Slowly, Olive stepped carefully around the damp patches on the carpets and made her way into the living room. Her father was glowing bright red, whereas her mother had a sickly, white hue.

"Olive." Her mother's voice was hoarse, and came out as barely a whisper. "Go back to bed. I'm sorry your father and I were shouting so much."

Olive shook her head. "Please stop arguing. Can't you and daddy make friends again?"

"Olive, you really should get back to bed," Her father said, sounding exasperated. Olive knew that he was probably going to start fighting with her mother again, and that nothing would ever get better.

"Maybe we could let Olive sit down, just for a while?" Her mother asked, looking at Olive earnestly with her large, honest green eyes. "I could go and get some blankets to warm us all up."

"Yes, that would be an excellent idea, and then maybe we could resolve this quarrel."

Olive sat down on the comfiest armchair with had several cushions on it that her grandmother had sat and embroidered for hours, just for the family when they had originally moved into the house. Olive snuggled up and instantly felt herself warming up. Her mother soon came back with blankets, giving two to Olive, who soon felt herself drifting off to sleep.

She woke up to a smell of burning. Her parents were nowhere to be found. Olive quickly assumed that her mother was probably burning the toast, her father was most likely fast asleep or out early fishing with his friends from the village.

Darting her eyes around the room, Olive realised that the burning seemed to be coming from something that as much closer, and then she got the feeling of extreme heat. **She was on fire!**

Screaming as if there was no tomorrow (which, put it this way, unless she acted fast, there wasn't going to be), Olive ran for the pond. As she opened the door, the flames seemed to latch on to the wooden door frame, which was spreading to the tables and chairs outside, which was spreading to the fence. Strangely enough, Olive's hands and arms were completely unmarked, as was the rest of her, although Olive has to check several times before she was quite sure her hair had not burst into flame; she realised that her hair was just the same colour as the fire that had started. But how? Her family didn't own a fireplace, and the kitchen didn't seem to be on fire either, if her mother had burnt toast. The fire had started around her, and she had no sign of any burns or injuries. Had _she_ started the fire? Was she responsible for all of the destruction that she was creating. Olive never had shown any signs of anything like this before, so why now?

But there was virtually no time for anything, except from to save and warn her parents from what would be an almost certain death.

Olive raced back into her house, and headed for her parents' bedroom. Her father was still asleep, and Olive needed to act quickly. She shook her father urgently, who was starting to groan angrily. "Jane, I don't need you to wake me up like this for church every Sunday morning."

"Daddy! Get up! There's a big fire!"

Her father shot up quickly and looked at Olive with a look of great disbelief.

"What?" He asked groggily.

"Come on!" Olive took her father's arm and dragged him out of bed.

"Damn!" Her father exclaimed at the top of his voice.

"We have to get mummy! Quickly!"

Olive's father gently clasped her shoulders. "No Olive. You run as fast as you can, and don't look back. Go to the village and get help. Get as many people as you can. I'll find your mother."

Olive did exactly as he said, running as fast as her small, slender legs could carry her, and did not look back at her burning house.


	2. Chapter One

The sun would never shine again. At least not for Olive. She felt as if there would be a terribe black storm cloud hanging over her everyday for the rest of her life. If everybody knew who had started the fire, if they knew who had been responsible for the death of her mother...

For the duration of the funeral, Olive was completely zoned out from everything that was being said. Luckily for her, she hadn't been picked to make any type of speech, or write a poem. Many of the people underestimated this small quiet seven year old, who really was very nearly eight. That, and she was probably most likely to burst into tears- for the guilt inside her that grew worse every day, and in the memory of her poor, beautiful mother.

"I'm sorry for your loss Olive." William, a boy who had turned nine recently was just one of the many, many people who had said this to Olive and her father. To be honest, it was now starting to get very tedious. Olive's mother had been quite popular with some of the men, but a few of the women had been jealous of her beautiful looks; in Olive's opinion they probably never really cared whether she lived or died.

"Do you want me to take you and Olive home?" Olive's grandfather asked quietly, his voice barely audible, probably from all of the grief that he had from the death of his daughter. The thought of this made Olive feel _so_ sick she thought that she might throw her entire insides up.

"No," Her father replied curtly. How would she tell him? He had loved his wife so dearly, even though they occasionally argued about the terrible, run down condition of their house (or shack, as they both so often called it), he could never bring himself to disagree with her.

"Come on Olive. Lets go home, and get away from this funeral. It's murder! Your grandfather should never have invited so many people along." Olive really wasn't in the mood to argue with her father when he was like this. Her father reached out for her hand, but Olive tried her best to dodge it. She had made extra special care not to touch anything or anyone with her hands, as she was worried that she would start a fire again and perhaps hurt _even_ more people.

"Why're you being so awkward, Olive? Normally you like to hold my hand."

" Yes, I do, but Mummy died, and I'm too sad to do anything."

"Then why don't I tuck you up into bed as soon as we get home?" He asked, in the most cheery voice that he was able to manage. "Even if it is a half burnt shack," He added under his breath.

Olive shook her fiery hair wildly. " No. I just want to go outside. Alone, please."

Her father frowned, then considered for a second. " That's fine, as long as you don't run away or do something stupid. I know that you're sad, but so am I, and so is your grandfather and everybody else in the village. But death is something that will happen to everyone, it's a natural part of life. Only, your mother didn't need to go so quick."

He halted in the middle of the path, knelt down and cupped her head in his hands, which, to Olive, seemed ten times bigger than hers would ever be. "I can explain this much better when you're older, and you can understand more." He stood up again and continued walking.

The rest of the journey continued in silence. It seemed that everyone they passed was annoying Olive's father, as his 'joyful' walk soon became an angry stomp. Olive was afraid that the next person who gave a polite 'hello' was going to make her father explode with anger. This would make the guilt feel worse, and Olive felt as if she wasn't going to live through the rest of the day without telling somebody the _real_ truth.

As soon as they arrived, Olive dashed out into the puny garden that the family owned. The only beauties outside were the water fountain, which was a gift from a distant relative. She had always felt that the eyes of the strange bird on the fountain were watching her, and she had always felt insecure around it. The only other lovely feature of the garden was a pretty batch of red roses, the namesake of her mother. Her mother maintained them daily, but recently the deep red colour had gone a slightly orange colour, reminding Olive of the burning fire only a short while ago.

Olive wondered if the fire was actually created from her hands, or if she had hallucinated this. Should she even be guilty? Maybe the shock and fear of the fire had made her imagine that she was creating fire with her bare hands. But she had to be sure that this was real.

Swiftly, Olive picked up a fallen tree branch from the ground. Instantly if was set alight. Even though the flames were touching her fingers, there was no burning sensation whatsoever- she couldn't feel a thing! After a while, she was rather transfixed with the lovely flames she was creating, but one look at the roses and she yelped and dropped the stick into the bottom of the fountain. The flames were hissing, almost as they were urging Olive to stay, to be relight. The old guilt was there again. And she knew that it was herself who had started the fire.

For the past few nights, in case of another fire, Olive slept on the floor in her bedroom with her hands in metal bowls filled with ice cold water. She could barely sleep the night because of how painful it was. And the fear of her setting everything she touched on fire was increasing. What was she going to do? What if her father saw her sleeping like this?

One thing was clear now. She _had_ to tell him.

The afternoon that followed the miserable, dreary morning was bright and sunny. The exact opposite of Olive's mood. Nerves writhed in her like snakes. She had spent a while after realising that everything she touched would be set on fire (or possibly melt?) looking for something that would temporarily stop this from happening.

The plan entirely backfired. She found nothing and instead managed to alert her father instead. His footsteps thundered into the kitchen, only to find Olive on a footstool, with her hands balled into fists. He seemed puzzled, but this was soon answered by the frightened look on Olive's face.

"Olive! You look as if you've seen a ghost... And why are you stood up on that stool?"

"Daddy, there's something I need to tell you," Olive answered timidly, stepping down from the stool.

"What is it? You haven't broken anything, have you, Olive? Have you? Have you?!" He stepped right up to her and leaned into his face. She shrank back with absolute terror.

"No! No! I haven't done anything!" He relaxed and put a hand on her shoulder with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Please, I need to tell you something outside."

"Come on then Olive, but we should be quick- It's getting dark outside," And with that Olive felt herself being steered outside into the cold sunset. There was a mist unravelling itself outside, which made everything seem very eerie to Olive. There might be monsters outside! Evil things that ate you alive and destroyed everything in their path. But was Olive now one of these monsters? Had she become something so evil that she had killed her own mother in a cold heart? No. She simply couldn't think that.

They sat down in the garden. The two old people who lived about ten minutes away (as was everybody else) had donated a new set of tables and chairs, after the Elephanta family's had burnt to nothing but a pile of ash.

"So. What is it that you need to tell me, Olive?"

"Well, daddy, I-" She broke away, barely able to breath. Would she ever be able to tell him?

"Go on darling. You can tell me anything." His tone was so gentle that Olive wanted to burst with tears.

"I, well...I...I-"

"Come on sweetheart. You can do it." He tried to place his hand on hers, which was faced palm up. Olive rushed her hand away abruptly.

"I started the fire."

Her father went very pale, as did Olive, contrasting with their furiously fire coloured hair.

"No, you didn't," he said with a nervous laugh. "It was an accident. You just discovered the fire, it must have confused you greatly."

"No, daddy. I did do it," she insisted, her voice wobbling. A tear cascaded down her cheek. "I killed mummy." She was trying her absolute best not to cry, but she knew that soon her emotions would take control of her.

"And, may I ask, exactly how you start the fire? Surely you didn't use matches, or stones?" His voice was wavering too.

"I can show you."

"How?"

"Could you get a tree branch for me?" She questioned, and quite promptly, her father stood up, and walked stiffly over to a willow tree. He eased off a small branch and carried it over.

Olive took the branch from her father like a shot of lightning, and as soon as she did, it was on fire. Her father had the exact same reaction that she had, but after a minute, his fascinated expression hardened, and quickly the colour came back to his face. He shot up, making Olive jump and drop the glowing stick onto the concrete floor.

Her father stepped on the stick with his heavy hobnailed boot, smouldering the flames. He grabbed hold of Olive's wrist in an iron grip, drawing tears of pain from Olive.

"You were the cause of **all** of my misery!" He shrieked, and dragged her back into the house. "You're a demon, a curse upon the world!" He threw her onto her bed.

"Don't touch _anything_. I'll be back with something to stop you from killing me as well," he hissed. Olive could hear the lock turn in the door. She was trapped in her room. _Forever_.

She curled up into a ball on the floor, taking caution as not to touch anything with her hands. For the rest of the night she wept and wept. The guilt and emotion that had been locked up for the last few days was pouring out. Would she ever be free of this pain?


	3. Chapter Two

"Henry! Henry!" Ernest Robertson, Olive's grandfather was knocking on the door for what seemed like the millionth time. It had been two years since the fateful day when Olive was shut out from the world forever, and isolated in her room. Of course she would be allowed out to certain places, but her father had a very strict time limit. When he was in a good mood, at weekends she could go outside for around twenty minutes.

For bedtime, Olive had her old wooden bed changed to one of metal and she was not allowed to have the sheets anywhere further than her waist up. Her father also was her wear a fire-proof fabric all of the time, and had more wrapped all the way up her arms so tightly that in the morning she would have horrible sores from where they had torn into her pale, delicate skin. Her father hadn't even _tried_ to make the fabric into anything wearable or comfortable such as gloves, and the material was constantly itching her skin.

 _Rap!_ Olive's grandfather was getting increasingly impatient, as Olive could clearly hear from the confines of her room. It wouldn't be long before the front door came falling down.

"I know you're in there Henry! Answer this damn door now, before I smash it down!"

Quickly, Olive's father speedily paced to the door, unlocked five or so latches and opened the door, which had been dented slightly from the constant banging of Olive's grandfather.

"What is it now, Mr Robertson?" He asked wearily.

"I demand to see my granddaughter!"

Her father looked nervous for a moment, pausing, then going, "She's out, playing with her friend. You know...ummm...Barbara! Remember her?"

Olive's grandfather reddened. "I've know the names of every person in this town for all seventy one years of my life. Every birth, every death, every marriage. Henry Elephanta, you're lying! I've had it with you!" He whacked his cane against the carpet, which now had a fine array of burns and holes.

"No, really...She doesn't live far away-"

"For two years I have barely seen Olive. You have refused me so many times, as have you refused everyone else. I can barely remember what she _looks_ like!" He stamped his foot in frustration. Where could Olive be? What was her father hiding? His eyes then fell to the many burns littering the carpet.

"How long have these been here? Have you now taken to ruining the house I gave to my Jane? Are you going out of your way to ruin people's lives?"

Olive's father tensed, and stood up straight. For a moment it looked as if he was going to strike the man he had hidden from for all this time. Then his hand dropped by his side.

"Get out of my house," he declared, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

"Excuse me?" Olive's grandfather retorted. "This is technically my house. You have no right to boss me around. In fact, I have a feeling that _you_ started the fire."

"If only you knew."

And those were the last things that Ernest Robertson heard before he was shoved out of the house and into the thorns, which ripped and shredded his clothes, whilst cutting into him and causing terrible pain. Little did he know that this would be the very last time that he would ever see this house, the very last time that he would see the ghastly Henry Elephanta, the very last time he would attempt to go back to see Olive.

Later on that week, the news spread quickly of the scene that had unfolded. Olive father watched her like a hawk, and would rarely leave the house. This resulted in him taking most of the food, only giving anything stale or rotten to Olive, unless he was feeling kind hearted. But this only actually meant that she would get a fresher portion that was still minuscule. What came from this was that Olive was becoming dreadfully thin, and at times, ill.

Did her father even care? The answer was always no. Olive had tried to speak to him, to scream out. Unfortunately, in return he would strike her and shout at her so loud that she would curl up into a ball and start crying, rocking herself in a catatonic state. She barely got to see the ouside world anymore; her room became a prison, her father the jailer.

Soon Christmas came, and the spirits seemed to lift slightly. Olive woke up at three o'clock in the morning, in even more pain than usual, due to her father binding the fire-proof fabric even tighter, leaving marks as deep as a knife wound.

She heard the key turn in the lock, and in stepped her father, smiling from ear-to-ear.

"Merry Christmas!"

He handed Olive a large present. "This is from me, Olive. I hope that you always keep this close to your heart."

She unwrapped the present, which took her quite a bit of time, considering that her hands looked as if they were mummified. After the paper was removedd, Olive found herself staring at several books.

"I don't know if I ever told you Olive, but I love writing. So much, in fact that I have these diaries which are written from when I was around ten to around the time when you were born. You should find them an interesting read."

Olive was very puzzled. Why would her father, who had abused her and isolated for two and a quarter years, give her his secret diaries? Maybe this was all a trick, as she could barely open the front cover with this horrible cloth wound up around her hands. Yes, if she tried to remove it her father would definitely scream at her, maybe even stop her food for the next several days.

"Thank you daddy," she whispered, speaking for the first time in ages. Her father stood up, beckoning her to come with him.

"There are some more presents in the living room. Do you want me to show you?" He asked, in the gentle voice that Olive had not heard for ages. She found herself standing up and following him into the living room, which she had not set foot into for at least three or so months. Inside, the room was piled with mounds of presents, saved from the last two or so years. These also seemed to include birthday presents.

"Wow..." Olive exclaimed, breathless. Was all of her pain and despair gone?

Her father reached out for a large present. He had an uneasy look on his face.

"Olive, this present is from your grandmother. Would you like me to unwrap it for you?"

"Yes please."

Quickly, he tore the wrapping paper and handed her the box. It was quite big, and rattled when Olive shook it. Instantly she knew it was something that had once belonged to her mother. But right now, something else was also on her mind.

"Daddy? What about grandfather?"

Her father went chalk white, and he seemed to become smaller, like a young boy who had been caught stealing. "I don't know how to say this Olive, but your grandfather...died."

Olive fell down with a thud. She could hardly believe her ears. "I'm sorry daddy, but I don't think I heard you very well."

Her father went on, ignoring her previous comment, "He fell ill on his way back from visiting you. I tried to warn him about what was happening at the house, but he just wouldn't listen to me."

"What was happening daddy?"

For some reason, Olive's father seemed to smirk at her in a cruel way. Instantly, she knew exactly the reason why her father had asked her grandfather to leave. Olive crumpled, felling even more lost in this world. She had hit rock bottom. She had not only killed her mother, but managed to kill her _grandfather_ , as well.

"It's me daddy."

His eyes became cold towards her, his horrible smile becoming even wider.

"You think I don't know about these things," her father said, shaking, both in voice and movement. "But I know very well. I am related to someone like you, my half-brother, of all people. He had powers as well, but instead of fire coming from his hands, it was ice. I was the only person in my family who didn't die," he said, sounding so unstable, Olive felt as if he was going to erupt any second with his fiery temper.

"I was thirteen. An orphan. Oh, he tried to control these 'powers', but all that resulted in was everybody in the house being frozen to death. I couldn't stop him, but I will _certainly_ stop you. And who could've believed that my _own daughter_ was cursed with powers created by the devil himself as well."

Olive knew where this would end up. She would be in her bedroom, on the hard floor, crying a flood of tears, will her father drank as much gin as possible until he passed out. She slowly stood up, and started to back away from her father.

"And you'll think that I'm hurting you, when really, all I'm doing is protecting you. If I exposed you to all of the village, you be running from infuriated mobs, their fire on your fire. Or you'll be sold to some stupid circus, as the main act: The girl who creates fire. I am your only hope in the world."

With that, her father picked Olive up and stormed into her bedroom. "I'm coming back with more of that fabric stuff," he said harshly, dropping her onto the bed. He began to leave the room, and stopped in the hallway, his face illuminated by the dim light of the newly risen sun, making him look like a skeleton. "Olive, if you try and escape, the punishment...well, it'll be beyond your imagination."

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Olive in more fright than ever before. It was hard to believe that her father had a relative like her, this was probably the reason that she had never met her other set of grandparents before. But surely her father would have told her mother-or didn't he?

Maybe that's why he hated the cold so much, always complaining and starting unnecessary arguements and discussions with people about the winter, and how much he hated snow. But what about the warmth? Surely he would hate the fire now, because of her.

She could her his footsteps coming back, the one sound that could be heard at least a hundred miles away. Then the squeaky sound of the key in the door. At last, her father's face was seen around the door, followed by a body. From her father's hand came a long belt, a venomous snake, but instead of venom, cuts and bruises would be the result.

"Olive. I have some more of the fabric outside, in the box underneath the window. I want you to climb out here and fetch it for me."

She hesitated, wondering what devious scheme he had cooked up now. With a key he had brandished from his pocket, Olive's father began to unlock a series of mechanisms keeping the window shut. He then made an effort to open it, as it had been shut for such a long amount of time. Olive climbed out, taking great care that the 'bandages' were intact and would not catch on anything. She jumped, falling into a patch of dock leaves, just narrowly missing the foxgloves that her father had planted outside, should she ever attempt to escape.

Shakily standing up, Olive glanced around, looking for the fabric. Then she saw a big box, midnight black, with a thick lock on it. She decided to call up to the window, which was to high to reach, "Daddy? Can I have the key to the box please?"

Instead of her father, the only answer that she heard was a hammer, that seemed to be coming from inside. She would have to try and open the box herself. Or maybe she could just lift the box?

Planting her feet on the ground, Olive grabbed hold of the lock (there was no handle), and with some effort heaved the box off of the ground, whilst still checking that she wasn't going to light anything on fire either.

Then it hit her. She couldn't reach the window, let alone climb it! She ran round to the door, and crashed the box down, it didn't even _sound_ like there was any of that horrid stuff inside, binding her to her father. Slowly, Olive reached forward and rapped on the door. After around a minute or so, she could hear her father groaning in anger, and stomping down the hallway. She then heard him fiddling with the many locks in the door.

Creaking, the antique door opened, unveiling the livid fury on her father's face. "Get inside," he hissed, grabbing hold of Olive's shoulder and shoving her inside, slamming the door so hard that a nail came out of the hinges.

"Well, thank you for managing to take the box to the _front door_ ," he snarled into her face. "Get into your room _now_."

And with that, Olive found herself being marched into her room, which now had a set of iron bars on the windows to add to the never-ending list of locks and latches. Her father snatched the box from her, and got a key from inside his patched brown waistcoat. Olive stood by her bed, carefully watching him unlocking the box.

As he was opening the lid, Olive saw a wide array of weapons inside, as well as a bundle of ropes, some of that dreaded fire-proof fabric. He father selected a rather sharp knife, with edges like jagged teeth. He held up at Olive, looking as if he was about to take it through her heart. Was she going to be **killed**?

Then something surprised her. Her father took the knife straight through the horrible, itching fabric, tearing it down the middle. He did the same with Olive's other arm, then left. In shock, Olive fell to the ground, extremely confused as to what was happening. Was she finally free? From everything?

Soon, her father came back, with a large bucket of ice cold water. "Put your arms inside the bucket, and leave them there for the next five minutes," he instructed. Olive did as she was told, afraid that he would do something terrible if she protested.

The bucket was also made of metal, which was rusted slightly. Dipping her hands in, Olive felt barely anything; she was actually heating the water up- the exact opposite of what her father was intending to happen.

After a few minutes, Olive's father spoke, "That should be it then."

Olive removed her arms from the bucket of water- but a more appropriate description would be a bucket of _evaporated_ water. Her father reached into the box and brought out what looked like some very sharp teeth.

"Daddy? What is that?" She asked timidly.

"Let's end this once and for all."

With great effort, he tried to pry open the contraption. It sprang open, making Olive jump. Her father held it towards Olive's left hand.

"Daddy!"

He laughing cruelly, scaring Olive even more. "This is a trap that my father used when he went away to hunt bears and wolves around the world. It certainly put them out of their misery, and it will take away mine."

He attempted to get her hand into the trap.

"Don't you want to be free of this? To stop feeling like the murderer that you are!" He spat.

"No, daddy. **No**!"

"Don't you _ever_ talk to me like that, you little wench!"

Before he could use that satanic mechanism, Olive accidentally touched her bedsheets, instantly igniting them. The fire that she had not seen for a few years returned angrier and more vengeful than ever. Then her father's waistcoat caught on fire.

There was a scream in the room, which Olive soon realised came from her own mouth. Was she killing her _father_?

"You are the spawn of devil. WITCH!" He screeched into her face, Olive feeling as if her eardrums were about to burst.

"Put it out!" He wailed, sounding like the cat that she had witnessed being drowned by a horrible boy in the village. Just as she was then, there was nothing she could do.

Her father threw himself on the floor, and rolled around. Despite the horrible situation that was unfolding, the actions of her father seemed rather comical, and Olive had to stifle explosive laughter.

Once the flames were put out, her father, whose neck was raw with burns. He got the belt that he had brandished earlier from on top of Olive's chest of drawers, and gathered some of the fire-proof fabric.

He furled it up as tightly as it would go, letting it pierce into Olive's skin, where there were already raw marks and rashes. The pain stung so terribly that Olive felt tears spring to her eyes.

After her father had finished that, he got the belt. He looked at it for a second, then put it back into the box, and swapping it for two pieces of lethal looking rope. He then tied Olive's wrapped up hands to the two bedposts at the head of the bed.

"If you don't want to be a normal person again, stay as this twisted freak forever more," And left her at that.


	4. Chapter Three

Another four years came and went. Olive's father was deteriorating rapidly, and had become an angry mess. Occasionally, he would completely forget that Olive was even alive for weeks at a time. And when he did remember, it felt like all hell had been unleashed. Fortunately, Olive was allowed to take walks around the garden- but this didn't happen very often, only when her father was in the lightest of spirits, when he had consumed a fair amount of alcohol and was unable to remember who Olive was; sometimes he even forgot who _he_ was.

Over the course of the last six years, Olive's father had changed so much, from a kind, sensitive and loving father, to a hateful, abusive wreck who had turned to alcohol, thinking that it would solve all of his problems in a flash.

Just as much as her father tried to keep her locked away, her grandmother tried to free, like a bird from a cage. On one occasion, she came to the door, just as her grandfather did several years before, demanding to see Olive. Luckily then, there was no physical violence used, just strong words. And even though her grandmother said she would stop trying, she lied. She was a very good liar.

Today, Olive was outside, under the beady and watchful eye of her father, who didn't seem to have a bottle of gin in sight. The rose bush that her mother once kept beautiful was completely wilted, and there was barely any memory of it at all, just as there was no memory left of her mother (or so it seemed to her father).

Olive had her pale hands wrapped up into that horrible, itchy fire-proof fabric, but additionally, she had her hands tied up with rope that burned as strongly as the fire that was being concealed. There was a loud banging at the door.

"Olive." Her father said, for once sounding like he was sober.

"Yes, daddy?"

"Stop calling me that. Surely you're not a toddler anymore?" There was the digging insult she had been waiting for. Her father couldn't have a proper conversation with Olive without bullying her in some way.

"Sorry," she whispered, looking down at her feet.

"I need to go and answer the door. You will not leave this garden, otherwise the punishment will be unthinkable." He said this with force, even though Olive suspected that he hadn't even thought of any punishment.

As he strolled back inside, Olive looked wistfully around the garden, with the newly added iron fence. She wished she could cry for help, or do something to alert the police, or somebody passing by- if somebody ever actually came through the bumpy path.

Out like a flash, somebody ran at Olive, nearly knocking her over. Gasping in shock, she tried to get a look at her assailant, who had seemingly left the garden.

"Olive." At first she thought it was her father, coming back. But then she realised that the voice came from someone much younger than her father. Turning behind her, she came face-to-face with William Oakes, who, she suspected had probably turned fifteen recently. He looked far, far more different than from when she last saw him at the funeral. His voice had broken, he had gotten much taller, and he seemed to have shed a lot of weight. One thing that had not changed though, was that he was dressed in all black. But Olive suspected that it wasn't a funeral this time. Was it an escape mission?

"Hello William. It's been a very long time," she said as clearly as she could, but her voice was still hoarse from all the horrible treatment she had received from her father.

"Come on Olive, let's go!" He hissed, reaching out for Olive's arm. She pulled away, abruptly shaking her head.

"No. I can't. If I do, he'll kill us both," she replied.

"No, your grandmother's at the door, diverting your father. This is your chance to go! He's been keeping you here as prisoner for _ages_!"

Olive considered for a moment. Would she be able to leave home? Or should she even call it that? But what if her father-

"Right, I take that as a yes," he said, once again attempting to grab her arm, but Olive was too quick.

"I need to get my things," she declared, with as much courage as she could. Over the years, Olive had kept hold of the big box that she had received from her grandmother, her father's diaries and a ragdoll that her father had attempted to make her many years ago. It had failed, but she loved it just the same. Even now.

"Well, be quick then!" He said impatiently, and Olive promptly went into the house, as swift as she could, but trying not to make any noise. Both feats seemed incredibly hard when put together, especially since the old house now creaked more than ever.

Olive prised the door open silently, and retrieved her possessions, which were all in a small pillowcase, that Olive could easily fit into and sleep in when she was about five. Immediately, she took off, and made her way back outside so quickly that she could barely feel her petite feet touch the ground.

William looked startled, "You made me jump, Olive." He beckoned her to come towards him. "We're going to get out of this prison right now."

Olive looked confused. "How exactly did you get in? I never saw-"

William placed a finger on her lips and stood up to his full height. He was almost taller than he father, which scared her slightly. "Follow me..."

And with that he climbed one of the trees bordering the garden, and seemed to disappear. Olive herself attempted to scale the huge tree, but with her arms wrapped up it took her _far_ longer than it did for William. But she still managed to get up.

"You doing all right there?" Asked William, sounding like his younger, more outspoken self.

"I'm fine, but in case you hadn't noticed, I have my arms all wrapped up," she snapped, her voice dripping with saracasm. William almost fell out of the tree; Olive herself was shocked and ashamed of herself.

"I'm sorry, I just... I haven't had a very happy life for the last six or so years."

"We have to keep moving. I think I just heard your front door slam," William said. He climbed up slightly higher in the tree, then beckoned for Olive.

"Quickly, Olive- If we can make across to the other tree, it'll be harder for your father to get to us if he find us." He was pointing in the direction of the forest, the place that Olive had never ventured into, scared that ghosts and monsters were wandering about inside. That, and the tree that they were going to jump to seemed very far away.

"Ummm, how are we going to get across?"

But Olive was too late. William had already leaped to the tree, and just about clung on to the nearest branch.

"Quickly, Olive! Your father's coming!" He was right. She could hear her father shrieking after her, tearing apart bushes, and on his way, he squashed her mother's rose bush. It was as if she was gone to him now.

Quick as a flash, Olive lept with all of her might to the other side. Unfotunately, due to the restricting conditions that her father had kept her in, her legs were fairly weak, and she barely reached the tree. She plummeted to the ground, her leg making a horrible cracking noise. Did she just _break_ her leg? It would be very unsurprising, considering of the horrible conditions that her father had forced her to live in.

William slid down from the tree with ease, and crouched down. He lifted Olive up as easily as a child picking up a small toy. "Olive, we _have_ to move. Your father saw you, and now he's coming! We need to go _now_!"

Without arguing, Olive tried to run, but the pain in her leg was so intense that she fell back down again. "Olive, I'm going to have to carry you," he said urgently, picking her up and putting her in his arms. He began to run. "Look behind me and see if you can see your father."

Olive tried to look through the thick, dark undergrowth. At first, she couldn't see anything, but a little later, her father came hounding towards them, his face bright red. He was yelling after the pair, but as Olive predicted, he slowed down, probably due to consuming so much alcohol.

"Quickly, William! He's slow, but I think he catching us up!" She exclaimed. William promptly sped up, huffing and occasionally stumbling. Soon Olive could see her father growing smaller and smaller, as they left the forest and became nearer to the village. The quaint, pretty buildings had barely changed since Olive had last seen them six years ago, but many the people certainly had. As William gently eased her onto the ground, Olive could feel that many people were starting to stare, people that probably had no idea who she was anymore. Olive herself could only recognise a few people, the kind baker, her friend from school and some others. Luckily, William knew that this must have been slightly strange and scary for her, so he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"Let's go to your grandmother, she should be home by now," he murmured to Olive. He guided her through the gathering crowd of people, Olive beginning to recognise more and more people.

"Olive?" Geraldine, who was seventeen the last time Olive saw her, stepped forward. "Is it really you?"

"Geraldine, Olive doesn't have any time to be answering questions. She's being chased by her father!"

Gasps of shock and fright went through the crowd, both at realising it was Olive, and that her father was hunting her down. Olive and William hurried on, desperate to get to her grandmother's. The pain in Olive's foot was nothing compared to what she had previously suffered, and she was able to grit her teeth and walk.

"Geraldine's married now. To that rich man who owns the bookshop, remember him?"

Olive remembered him very well; Geraldine used to babysit her, and would tell her all about the bookshop owner that she hated with a passion.

"I suppose opposites attract," she remarked, thinking of her father and her mother. How they were like fire and water to one another.

Soon, they were at her grandmother's house. Luckily, the cart was stationed nearby, so her grandmother had to be in.

"Did she take the cart?" Olive asked.

"No, she rode her horse, Ernie."

With a sting, Olive realised that the horse must have been named after her late grandfather, who _she_ had killed. The guilt that Olive felt everyday was rising to the surface again. She could barely breathe.

William reached out and knocked on the door. There was no reply. After a minute, he went to knock again, until from down the lane, a distinct clacking noise could be heard.

"Olive, I think it's your grandmother," he whispered.

"Why are you whispering?" Olive asked, confused.

"In case it's someone like your father."

Soon, Olive could see a figure approaching them (or was it the house?) on a horse. After a while, Olive could clearly see the once-beautiful, lined face of her beloved grandmother, who steered the horse into the yard, and dismounted. She untacked the horse, and afterwards led him into the stable.

William walked confidently as possible towards Olive's grandmother, leaving Olive thinking that he was probably going to demand a large sum of money for rescuing her. "I got her out safetly, but on the way she really her leg, Mrs Robertson."

"Call me Maureen," she replied. She turned towards Olive, her arms outstretched. "Olive. It's so wonderful to be with you again after all these years." She enveloped Olive in a warm embrace, the kindest gesture she had received in six years.

"You look so different. You're so beautiful, like your mother." She looked at Olive, from head to toe. "Your grandfather and I tried so hard to reach out to you. At first, your father said you were too sad, then he said you were too busy and then he said you never wanted to see us again. We knew there was something wrong from the moment your father said he'd take you alone by himself. Remember, on the day of the funeral?"

Olive nodded. "Thank you so much for everything."

"What is that on your arms?" Her grandmother asked, pointing at that horrid fire-proof fabric.

"Oh, he put that on me for protection." Olive murmured, shuddering at the thought of her father binding _that stuff_ around her arms.

Her grandmother looked around, her eyes falling on William. "Thank you very much for everything. Would you like me to pay you?"

Olive wondered how William might respond. _Would_ he ask for money? She couldn't be sure.

"No, Mrs R, the only pay I need is knowing that Olive is safe and sound. But I wouldn't mind if I could borrow your telephone. I need to call my father to come and pick me up- I don't really want to bump in to Olive's father on the way home, especially not since it's getting so dark."

Olive's grandmother looked shocked; she had probably expected this boy to ask for truckloads of money. But then she smiled. "Sure. I expect your parents must be worried sick," she replied warmly. Olive herself felt an emptiness inside, she had now lost both of _her_ parents, the two people meant to love and care for her most.

As they went inside, Olive's grandmother put a hand on her shoulder, instantly making her feel protected, something she had not felt for ages. Her grandmother steered her into the living room, while William went off in the direction of the telephone. Olive sunk into the lovely white armchair, while her grandmother lit a fire.

"So then Olive. You needn't worry about your father here. He can't hurt you, and I certainly will not," she said firmly, taking a seat on the armchair. "Are you alright to tell me?"

Olive felt unease- How would her grandmother react? Would she torture her, imprison her?

"I-I...Well...I...Ummm..." she attempted to speak, only to come in stutters and stammers.

"You can tell me anything, and I'll never get angry with you," her grandmother said soothingly, placing a wrinkled hand on Olive's leg, which was going up and down with anxiety. She was so much like Olive's own mother.

"Well, you might not believe me, but everything that I touch gets set on fire." There. It was out. Olive waited for her grandmother's temper to start (she didn't know what to expect- did her grandmother ever get angry?).

"Y-You started the fire?" Her grandmother asked shakily. Olive nodded, a lone tear streamed her porcelain face.

"I'm sorry."

Her grandmother rose slightly. Olive knew what was going to happen next. Sinking _even lower_ into the armchair, she closed her eyes, attempting to swallow all the guilt she was feeling at that moment.

What came next, she was completely shocked about. Olive could feel the warm arms of her grandmother wrapped around her. She was sobbing lightly, and opening her eyes, Olive could see William stood in the doorway, a befuddled look on his face. "Sorry to interrupt, but my father's just coming to pick me up now."

At this, Olive's grandmother jumped, and in the light, Olive could see that her eyes were red. "Thank you very much for bringing my beautiful Olive back home, and have a safe journey home," she said wistfully, probably in remembrance of that fateful fire.

"Bye William," Olive said quietly. He had saved her life, and she had no way to thank him.

William stayed by the door silently; everyone seemed very awkward, not knowing what to say. Around ten or so minutes later, a knock loud enough to burst all the windows in the house sounded out. William opened the door, and for a minute Olive could catch a glimpse of a tall, thin man with wild black hair waiting outside, accompanied by a teenage girl, who would have been most lovely, if it had not been for the horrible glare on her face.

Without a word, William stepped out, carefully shutting the door behind him. He had gone. Finally. Which wasn't a bad thing, except for how embarrassed Olive felt, since he had stared at her the entire time.

"Olive?" Her grandmother asked in an unusually low voice. "I don't blame you for what happened."

This was a bolt from the blue, and Olive just found herself staring, dumbstruck.

"If I put out that fire, would you be able to light it again?"

Olive nodded, yearning to be free to that itchy, awful cloth that encased her hands.

"He only made me wear this all up my arms because he was afraid that I might kill him as well," she said.

Her grandmother narrowed her eyes, "It would probably be all for the best if he _had_ died, the miserable old crone. It would have rid the world of one less evil person." This completely took Olive by surprise. She had never met anyone who had talked about her father in this way- In the last few years no one had been brave enough, and before that, there was _nothing_ wrong with him.

"Before the fire, he was such a nice man. Always kind and selfless to others, so alike to your mother. He told us- me, your mother and your grandfather- everything. About his horrible cat, his loving parents. Everything. We knew he didn't have much money. He even told us about his half-brother, who was like you."

This was the second time she had heard of this mysterious half-brother. She wanted to question her grandmother further, but she knew that later would be a better time. She had to show her grandmother about the one burden that had caused so much horror, so much misery, and all of that guilt.

"Grandmother, could you possibly get this horrible stuff off of me please?" Olive asked hesitantly.

Her grandmother went into the kitchen. Presently, she came with a knife. As she sat down and got to work, she said, "Olive, I know that you'll need something to stop you from setting fire to things. Do you think that there is anything that I could do?"

What was there? Olive might be able to try facing her palms away from everything...No, that would be hard, and probably cause her terrible aches.

"Do have any oven gloves? Maybe you could layer them inside with tinfoil? I don't think that would hurt me very much- or itch me!"

"Yes, that's a great idea," her grandmother replied, taking the remains of that evil fabric. "That'll be the last time you see that stupid cloth," she declared, dumping it into the bin. "Now, would you like to show me what you can do with fire?" She went back into the kitchen, and when she returned she had a metal bucket filled with water, which she used to put out the crackling fire.

Hesitantly, Olive made her way over to the fireplace. She knelt down, breathing in the ashy, smoky remains of the fire. Out of the basket next to the fireplace, she quickly took out a large log. Instantly it began to roar with flame, and luckily Olive had just missed creating an inferno from the basket and the rest of the logs. The flames were just as entrancing and beautiful as before; such a thing of beauty and power that even her father was unable to quench.

"Careful, Olive!" Her grandmother yelped. The flames had just reached her fingers, but instead of burning her, they just lightly tickled her skin.

"Don't worry, they can't hurt me," she said, laughing for the first time in years. Her grandmother breathed a sigh of relief and watched intently as the log went onto the fireplace, igniting the rest.

The two sat by the fireplace for while, enjoying the warmth, and each other's company. After around half an hour, Olive's grandmother spoke, her voice layered with concern. "Olive, did you know that there's a war going on in the world right now?"

Olive shook her head, confused about this sad piece of news. She had always thought that the world should be a happy place, with everybody living in harmony. Of course that was until her father had shown her differently.

"Well, unfortunately, there is. And there are planes from Germany coming around once in a while, trying to bomb us," she added. So _that_ was the loud droning noise she had heard at night, unable to rest. It had been going on for about a year now. But her father had not once told her about any war.

"Olive, they haven't really tried yet, but I have a feeling that the Germans might try to bomb us at some point, so I might have to evacuate you to somewhere that is safer. It will be for the best, and we _will_ see each other again. I promise that," she said softly, keeping Olive close. Olive treasured this moment, for who knew, something might happen tomorrow that would tear the two of them apart.

The next morning, Olive woke up to raised voices. Last night she had spent hours with her grandmother trying to create and perfect a pair of fire-proof gloves. The gloves were basically oven mitts lined with tin foil, but they had tried their best to make them very comfortable, and the only negative thing about them was that they would become very hot.

Making her way downstairs, Olive could see her grandmother stood in the doorway, arguing with somebody she couldn't see. She knew only too well who she was arguing with. Her father.

"Let me in Maureen! Let me in _right now_." He shrieked, giving Olive goosebumps.

As Olive fell into his line of vision, he went a horrible shade of crimson. He pointed his hand at Olive.

"You. The child from hell. You should be killed, or you will kill everything you touch. Those stupid oven gloves won't stop your evil. Maureen, I think that you should-"

"I should what? Cut her hands off? Tie her to a bed?" Olive's grandmother said, folding her arms defiantly. "I would never harm her. Only a monster would do such a thing."

"Which is _exactly_ what she is! She killed her own mother! My wife. Your daughter."

"It was an accident!" Her grandmother yelled, her voice at least a thousand decibels louder than his. "It wasn't her fault, and it NEVER will be! Get you big foot _off_ of my doorstep, and never come back into this town EVER AGAIN!"

With that, her father went away, with a look that could kill. Her grandmother had triumphed, the only person who had _ever_ been able to do that to Henry Elephanta. She had vanquished him once and for all.

"Well done granny!" Olive exclaimed, happier than ever. Her grandmother took her hand.

"Oh, Olive, it took a long time to get him out of here, but I think we did it together." They went to the kitchen. "Would you like a cup of tea? I'm afraid I can't offer you any toast, it broke when I threw at your father," she said, laughing. Olive joined in, but then realised how humiliated he must have felt, and that it might have hit him.

"It didn't hit him though, did it?"

"No, no. When he came up the drive, I was ready for him. I think I was a bit too angry."

She boiled the kettle. "Young William came back earlier this morning, he said you forgot your belongings." Olive's eyes fell to the pillowcase, which had her most prized possessions inside.

Her grandmother went on. "I noticed that your father gave you his diaries. If you want, you could look at them now."

Olive was eager to find out about the mystery of her father's past. "Yes please," she said. Her grandmother handed her six books, all of which were marked with the name 'Henry Elephanta' in varying types of handwriting. She opened the first book (which was quite hard for her, considering the big gloves she was wearing), and out fell a blurry photograph of her father as a ten year old, beaming, with another boy, who, she presumed was his half-brother. They did look quite alike.

"Ah, yes, that's David, your father's half-brother. You know your father would _not_ stop rambling on about him just now. Saying how he froze people to death. He was like you: Both kind, intelligent children, who have an amazing power. But unfortunately, he went missing some time ago."

Olive had really wanted to meet him, and had been taken aback that he wasn't alive. Did her father _kill_ him? His own brother?

"Do you know if somebody k-killed him?" She asked nervously.

"Oh no," her grandmother reassured her. "He just vanished. There's no trace of him now." She set two cups of tea down on the table. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," Olive replied, sipping her warm tea, which she thought she could feel heating up slowly, even through her gloves."It's lovely."

Her grandmother reached out, placing her weathered hand on Olive's covered one. "Olive, if you want I'll start your lessons again. I can get you some new clothing as well. And if you would like, I'll go through your father's diaries with you."

Olive liked this idea a lot; having things explained would be better.

"I hope you don't mind me asking Olive, but do you have the box I gave to your father to give to you six years ago. You may not have opened it." Her grandmother said quietly, staring at the floor.

At first, Olive was unsure as to what exactly her grandmother was talking about, until she remember the beautiful box she had been given on that fateful Christmas day.

"Yes, it's I brought that as well," and she reached in, bringing the slightly heavy box out.

"He should have let you open this years ago," her grandmother said in an annoyed tone. "Well, you can open this now then Olive, unless you would like to save it for later?"

And with that, Olive quickly undid the clasp with slight difficulty and slowly lifted up the lid. Inside was a beautiful necklace. It was an octagonal locket, with pretty engravings on it, attached to a thin chain. It was gold, and Olive completely loved it.

"This was your mother's, which she wore all the time, until your father made her take it off for some reason. She gave it to me to keep safe, and, when we found out that she died, I replaced the photos of me and your grandfather with ones of her and your father. There's also space for one other photo, if someone special ever turns up. And now you're able to have your mother with you forever."

Olive was overjoyed and excited. She knew that she would have a brilliant time with her grandmother, even if it might be just a little while. But if she _did_ have to be evacuated, she knew she would have a happy time there, and be reunited with her afterwards. After the last six years, things could only get better, right?


End file.
